DANTE AND HIS PARENTS CAME OVER TO OUR HOUSE the day
before they left for Chicago. Our moms cooked together. It didn’t surprise me they got along so well. They were alike in some ways. It did surprise me how well Mr. Quintana and my dad got along. They sat in the living room and drank beer and talked about politics. I mean, I guess they more or less agreed about things.
Dante and I hung out on the front porch.
For some reason, we were both into front porches.
We weren’t really talking very much. I think we didn’t really know what to say to each other. And then I got this idea into my head. I was playing with my crutches. “Your sketch pad is under my bed. Will you go get it for me?”
Dante hesitated. But then he nodded.
He disappeared into the house and I waited.
When he came back, he handed me the sketchbook. “I have a confession to make,” I said.
“What?”
“I haven’t looked at it.” He didn’t say anything.
“Can we look at it together?” I said.
He didn’t say anything, so I just opened up the sketchbook. The first sketch was a self-portrait. He was reading a book. The second sketch was of his father who was also reading a book. And then there was another self- portrait. Just his own face.
“You look sad in this one.” “Maybe I was sad that day.” “Are you sad now?”
He didn’t answer the question.
I flipped the page and stared at a sketch of me. I didn’t say anything. There were five or six sketches he’d done of me the day he’d come over. I studied them carefully. There was nothing careless about his sketches. Nothing careless at all. They were exact and deliberate and full of all the things he felt. And yet they seemed to be so spontaneous.
Dante didn’t say a word as I looked over his sketches. “They’re honest,” I said.
“Honest?”
“Honest and true. You’re going to be a great artist someday.” “Someday,” he said. “Listen, you don’t have to keep the sketchbook.” “You gave it to me. It’s mine.”
That’s all we said. Then we just sat there.
We didn’t really say good-bye that night. Not really. Mr. Quintana kissed me on the cheek. That was his thing. Mrs. Quintana placed her hand on my chin and lifted my head up. She looked into my eyes as if she wanted to remind me of what she’d said to me in the hospital.
Dante hugged me. I hugged him back.
“See you in a few months,” he said. “Yeah,” I said.
“I’ll write,” he said. I knew he would.
I wasn’t so sure I’d write back.
Me and my mom and dad sat out on the front porch after they’d left. It started to rain and we just sat. Sat and watched the rain in silence. I kept seeing Dante standing in the rain holding a bird with a broken wing. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not. What if he’d lost his smile?
I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry.
“I love the rain,” my mother whispered.
I love it too. I love it too.
I felt like I was the saddest boy in the universe. Summer had come and gone. Summer had come and gone. And the world was ending.
